


Crashing the Net

by dandelionwhiskey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Blow Jobs, Dallas Stars, Dirty Talk, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Jocks, Light Angst, Locker Room, M/M, Minor Hockey RPF, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Pittsburgh Penguins, Smut, Superstition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-06-05 02:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6685615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionwhiskey/pseuds/dandelionwhiskey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has hockey in his bones. The ice is where he belongs; from playing on the neighborhood pond with Sam to underneath the hot lights of tournament play. He's the best out of everyone he knows - until he meets Castiel Novak at World Juniors and his confidence gets checked into the boards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Checked

They first met at World Juniors.

The ice was the smoothest Dean had ever skated, the flickering of cameras in the stands dragging out every bit of adrenaline his body could produce. As center, he had to watch the whole rink and make sure his team showed up for him so they could rack up goals as early as possible.

He was always scouting out the other players. It was important to know what he’d be going up against when he got drafted come next round. He felt it in his bones; this was his year. Number 67.

Novak’s skates looked way too big for his feet and his stickhandling was shit but he was fast as hell and could always put himself in exactly the right place to drive a shot straight between the goalie’s legs. Dean watched from the bench as he gnawed on his mouthguard, brows raised with admiration.

The kid had to be on the young end of seventeen and had wide, serious eyes that tracked the puck mercilessly. It was Dean’s third time at the ripe age of nineteen when he shouldered Novak in the hall to the locker room, a grin on his face.

“You’re good,” he said earnestly, as Novak blinked slowly at him. “If you get drafted before me I wouldn’t even be surprised.”

Novak grunted. “I have a lot of work to do,” he said. His voice was way lower than Dean had expected it to be and that was better than he could have ever hoped for. “You’ll get drafted next round.”

“Yeah?” Dean flashed the kid a grin. “What pick?”

Novak pursed his lips. “Sixth.”

Dean was picked seventh for the Dallas Stars. 

As he posed with pictures with the coach’s arm around his shoulders, he couldn’t help but wonder if Castiel Novak was thinking about him from under his Penguins jersey across the arena. Goddamn kid was picked before him and Dean just wolf-whistled as the kid trudged wide-eyed up to the stage.

He didn’t talk to Novak again until months into the season when they both ended up on the ice in the second period. Novak was a left winger and mostly stayed far away from him, keeping on the puck like white on rice and refusing any Stars to get a fucking word in edgewise.

The season had been heavily Pens favored, to literally nobody’s surprise except their coach, apparently, and Dean was determined to turn this shit around. He stuck his thumb against his mouth guard and skated hard toward Novak and the puck, shoulders squared for a check.

Novak saw him coming from a mile away. He went low when Dean went high, elbow driving straight into Dean’s gut as he went rolling over the kid’s back. He landed hard on the ice but went up in a second to chase him down again.

He heard the crowd rumble their disapproval. Home ice was way more judgmental and the slurs being thrown his way from behind the glass were less than encouraging. He shrugged them off and narrowed his eyes on the back of Novak’s jersey, pushing toward him fast.

Dean managed to snake the puck from Novak and curled his stick around it to turn over back toward the Pen’s goal. The ice was fucking clear and the crowd swelled with anticipation and approval as Dean approached, playing the puck right and left so Fleury wouldn’t see it coming. Everything deafened to silence in Dean’s ears and all he could see was the back of that goal.

The puck hit the net and the Stars took the lead.

They even ended up winning the game. Dean wasn’t on the ice the whole time, but his first rookie goal earned him some pats and helmet taps from some of the best players in the goddamn world. Seguin even blew him a kiss and Dean winked back at him as he chugged his gatorade.

Novak skated by the line and gave him a nod. Dean expected a chirp, some kind of little comment or insult, but he just nodded the once and circled back to his place on the ice. Dean’s stomach tightened with something like disappointment and he was fucked.

Sneaking into the Penguin’s locker room was surprisingly easy. Dean knew the AA center like the back of his hand, having forced himself to explore every nook and cranny the moment he had access to the building. He’d watched the players leave, kept his eyes as sunk from Sidney Crosby as he possibly could, then slipped to catch Novak by the chest with his fingers.

“What’s wrong with you?” He said suspiciously. “You should be pissed at me.”

Novak stared at him, his hair kind of wet and stuck up everywhere. Dean swallowed hard and tried to maintain his glare, but Novak was giving him the most incredulous look. “Why?”

“I stole your puck.”

“You took advantage of a known weakness,” the kid argued gently, and fuck, he was right. “And you won. It was good hockey.”

“You haven’t given a puck up all fucking season,” Dean accused sharply. “The ice was clear for me to take that shot.”

“What,” Novak laughed, “you think I let you do it?”

Dean frowned, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. The game was always more important than any personal feelings out on the ice. “No,” he said petulantly, even though that was exactly what he had thought.

Novak raised an eyebrow and him and shrugged. “You distracted me and got the puck. I couldn’t recover it in time. It’s just the game, Winchester.”

“Dean.” He wondered, briefly, how he could have distracted the kid.

“Castiel,” Novak said as his eyes dragged from Dean’s toes to his face. “If you think I’m favoring you, well, don’t worry. We’ll get you next game.”

“Fuck you,” Dean said good-naturedly, poking at Novak’s shoulder. “This is the beginning of reclaiming our deserved lead.”

They hurled little snipes back at each other quick, the way it was in the locker room with your own team after a game. They’d radiated strangely closer, Castiel’s gym bag forgotten on the floor as they squared off. Eventually, Dean shook his head. “You’re going to miss your bus back to the hotel.”

Cas checked the clock on the wall. His eyes landed hard on Dean’s, a long, quiet moment stretching out between them. Dean wondered if he should just go, let Cas get back to his team and meet up again next game. Eventually, Cas huffed out a breath. “I could jerk you off.”

“What?” Dean said, startled, but Novak was already thumbing at the waistband of his sweatpants. “Oh, um. Okay.”

“Okay,” Cas said, and fit his hand down Dean’s pants.

His palm was moist, maybe sweat or lotion, but either way it curled around Dean’s half-hard dick and squeezed with the sweetest pressure. Dean dropped his forehead against Novak’s and earned a tiny little chuckle before he got the most condescending kiss he’d ever received. Just a tiny, indulgent peck.

Dean didn’t give a shit. He pushed in harder until Cas made a surprised noise in the back of his throat, allowing Dean to walk him back and press him against the cool line of lockers. He opened his mouth to Dean and let the kiss deepen until it was more filthy than the afterthought handjob.

But he kept his focus on that handjob, working Dean up to full hardness in a matter of seconds. Fuck, if he were this good with his hands on the ice then Dean would have never been able to scoop that puck away from him.

He told Novak as much, mumbled against his lips, and got a little pinch on the hip for it.

“If you moaned this much on the ice then maybe you would have been drafted before me,” Novak rasped into his ear. Dean laughed heatedly and rolled his hips against Castiel’s tight fist. Cas’ forearm flexed with his efforts, his thumb tapping against the wet head of Dean’s cock. His breath stuttered at the feeling and he reached down to grasp the meat of Novak’s ass and yank him closer.

“Mm, fuck,” Dean sighed as his combed his fingers through Novak’s short hair. “Just like that.”

Castiel managed to hike his shorts down as well to slide his cock up against Dean’s and jerk them off together. The impossibly warm pressure of Cas slipping up alongside him was almost unbearable. Dean sucked Novak’s bottom lip into his mouth and tongued hard against it, allowing his hips to just make tiny, short thrusts into Cas’ hand.

Castiel’s hand came down on his shoulder suddenly and his fingers dug sharply into Dean’s skin. The kiss broke with Cas quiet gasp of his name and the tightening of his grip over both their dicks, and he was coming hot and thick over his own first.

Dean surged in to kiss him. The little sounds Castiel made shot straight down his spine and made him want to come so bad, make him want to shoot all over the two of them.

“Gonna come now,” he choked out. Novak made an impatient noise and started to move his hand faster, the filthy slick sound of his wet hand going straight to Dean’s head. He groaned and let the orgasm take him, let his muscles seize every tight ache in his in body and release fast between them.

His heart beat fast as he came down from coming. His chest heaved with panting breaths as he cupped the back of Cas’ skull and kissed him deep and sure. He pulled back with a gentle, condescending peck and smirked Castiel’s way.

“Better go catch your bus.”

Cas mumbled something unintelligible as he fit himself back in his shorts. He cleared his throat and looked up to Dean. “The game is important,” he said, as if that segue made the slightest bit of sense. But unsurprisingly, to Dean, it did.

“Don’t worry, Novak,” he said, rolling his shoulders and popping the soreness out of his body. “Just don’t suck Crosby’s dick before mine.”

Cas gave him a flat look. “Stay cocky,” he said as he grabbed his gym bag. “If you do, we may have a chance of meeting in the playoffs.”

“You said cock,” Dean grinned. Castiel’s lip twitched in the quietest impression of a smile, and he was out the locker room door.

Neither team made the playoffs, and Dean and Castiel barely spoke until Dean had his head in his hands next draft.

His brother Sam was onstage, grinning wide, pulling on a Penguins jersey. Castiel leaned back over his chair, eight rows up, and raised his eyebrows at Dean with a gentle smile on his face. Dean’s heart sank solidly to his shoes. 

 _Fuck_.


	2. Blocked

 

Sam and Dean grew up on the ice together.

When Sam was younger, he was light and fast and could take the rink from one side to the other before anyone could blink. He would skate circles around Dean, tap him around the ankles with his stick, and snipe with whatever could get under his brother’s skin.

But as he got older, Sam filled out. He got tall and broad and his momentum on the ice took a sharp nosedive. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean used to joke, “lumbering giant you are? The Ducks will draft you in a heartbeat.”

Sam wouldn’t have turned his nose up at playing in Anaheim, but something just wasn’t right in his bones. He hit sixteen and felt too big for the rink, skin stretched too tight over his skin, the pads just hindering him even more.

That is, unless he was between the posts.

His size helped him cover most of the net, and his years of defending slapshots from Dean on the rink had honed his reaction time to near perfection. He went a whole season on his varsity high school team without letting a single puck hit the net.

Sam Winchester’s name was on lists across America even before Dean was drafted to the Stars.

When his name was called at the draft, Sam couldn’t get up to the podium fast enough. The way Dean ranted about the Penguins, and their rookie Castiel Novak, Sam knew it must be eating him alive out there in the seats that they got him. Sam couldn’t stop grinning.

The first time he spoke to Castiel Novak was in the foyer of the draft venue, hours after the event was over. Sam hadn’t wanted to leave yet. The air was thick with excitement and dreams-come-true and he just wanted a moment to breathe it all in.

“Winchester, hm?” He heard from behind him, and he turned to see Castiel smiling softly at him. “I’m Castiel Novak. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I know who you are,” Sam breathed, scrambling toward him. He wasn’t sure if he should shake the guy’s hand, or high-five him, or what. In the end, Castiel stuck his own hand out for Sam to grab. “It’s, uh. Really good to meet you, man.”

“I know your brother,” Castiel said as he grasped Sam’s hand and let his arm fall back to his side. There was just the slightest hint of humor in his tone.  

Sam tried not to slump, though it did feel like Castiel had just cut his strings a little. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he mumbled, but Castiel was shaking his head and holding up his hands defensively.

“Don’t worry. I think it’s good that his particular brand of discourse doesn’t run in the family.” Castiel smirked wryly. It was a chirp, but a weak one, so Sam beamed back at him.

“Dean’s a moron,” he offered. “I can’t wait to kick his ass out there.”

Castiel reached out to squeeze Sam’s shoulder and Sam’s stomach clenched pleasantly. “That’s the spirit, Sam. Welcome to the team.”


	3. Struck

 

Sam sat on the bench at the Consol Energy Center and watched Dean check Cas into the boards for the fourth time this period. He flexed his fingers on his Gatorade bottle, eyes locked on the two players dogging each other from one side of the ice to the other. **  
**

There was a grin slapped across his brother’s face and he could see Dean’s lips moving around Castiel’s name each time they collided. Tossing chirps back and forth, Sam suspected. Cas barely said anything about Dean off the ice, usually to Sam’s great relief, but Dean was constantly needling him.

At first, Sam thought it was because Dean wanted some sort of inside track on Novak’s routines so he could get the upper hand on the ice. But when Sam let slip that Cas preferred heavy, hoppy beer to the light stuff, there was a six-pack of Revolver waiting in their hotel room the next time they played in Dallas.

“Signed ‘Winchester’,” Castiel had said curiously, twirling the card between his fingers and peering in Sam’s direction. Sam held his hands up defensively.

“Don’t look at me,” he said as he shrugged off his bag. “I hate craft beer.”

Castiel had pursed his lips in something like a smirk. “Tell Dean I said thank you, then.”

It was around then that Sam started to put it together. 

They didn’t make it easy on him to figure it out, though; Castiel was stoic and quiet as ever and Dean would often go so far as denying he even knew who Cas was.

“Never heard of him,” he’d say around a mouthful of Chinese food when they Skyped together. Castiel, on the other side of the room, would roll his eyes.

But out on the ice, Dean was inches behind Cas at every pass, hooking the toe of his stick around Cas’ whenever he could. If he took a few penalties, he sure didn’t look like he minded. He drank water around his smile and grinned across the ice at Sam with a wave.

It was completely unprofessional and made Sam want to pull his mask down over his face.

The period ended and Cas hit the bench next to him, sweaty and frustrated. Sam felt the unbearable urge to apologize on behalf of his irritating brother. The team started to file into the locker room, assuredly about to be yelled at, and Sam grabbed Castiel’s wrist.

“Hey, uh,” he began, but Castiel just turned and clasped Sam’s hand in his own.

“Don’t worry about it, Sam,” he said kindly, squeezing Sam’s wrist. “Your brother’s actions don’t reflect on you. Let’s focus on winning this series.”

Sam’s fears were assuaged for the time being, and in the next period, Cas was able to snake the puck around Dean’s hovering presence and sink it in the net. Dean’s misery only fueled the Penguins to the game win on home ice.

Whenever the Stars were in town Dean wanted to get together with Sam, but the loss set the Stars schedule off and they had to cancel last minute. With nothing to do the night of a game win, Sam found himself shyly asking Castiel if he wanted to take Dean’s place.

“You want to get dinner?” Castiel repeated. Sam was instantly embarrassed.

“Oh, well, I just thought,” he stuttered awkwardly, “we’ve been rooming together for awhile, and Dean was such a dick tonight, I thought I could make it up to you.”

But Castiel was chuckling, running a hand through his shower-damp hair. “No, Sam, I’d like that. Where?”

Two hours later had them at a local barbeque joint and Sam was trying not to laugh at a smear of sauce on Castiel’s cheek. The conversation had been easy between the two of them; between hockey stories and some humiliating anecdotes including Dean freezing his tongue to a goalpost, it seemed they had a lot to share.

“You have a little, um,” Sam laughed, gesturing to his own cheek. Castiel stuck his tongue out in a vain attempt to swipe up the spare sauce, but eventually gave in and just wiped it off with a napkin. Sam beamed at him.

Castiel gave him an even look. “You and your brother are so different,” he said after a moment. “Dean wouldn’t have told me at all.”

“He would have just licked it off in the bathroom,” Sam said absently, then froze when he saw the stunned look on Castiel’s face. “Oh, no, Cas, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Castiel just continued to look at him. “Did Dean…?”

“No!” Sam said quickly, panic rising in his chest. “I swear, he didn’t say anything. I just know my brother, and the way he treats you on the ice, and the gifts, I just sort of…” Sam cleared his throat. “Put it together, I guess.”

“We don’t do a very good job of keeping it a secret,” Castiel admitted. “Not that it’s much of anything, to be honest.”

There was a hint of something in his voice, something melancholy and tight, that spoke volumes to Sam. “It sounds like you’re not too happy about that.”

Castiel gave him a sharp look. “Sam, it’s complicated. The as accepting as the league is in the press, it’s not exactly a headline we want.”

Sam stared at him, bewildered. “It’s not worse than some of the press the NHL gets,” he said apprehensively. “Is that really what you’re worried about?”

“This team, this game, is extremely important to me, Sam.” Castiel gestured toward the waitress for another beer. “I don’t think that whatever Dean and I have is worth compromising that.”

Sam had to remind himself to not be offended. He and his brother certainly had their differences, but he was still family, and Sam thought he was plenty good enough to compromise some things. But Castiel was his teammate, and this situation obviously had grey area that Sam didn’t have a full understanding of.

Castiel was shaking his head. “I don’t mean to insult your brother.”

“I know,” Sam said with maybe just a little petulance in his voice. “I think he really likes you, that’s all. If you’re going to keep doing whatever you’re doing with him, just be careful.”

“Understood,” Cas said, and thanked the waitress for his fresh beer. Sam wasn’t old enough yet, but he was sneaking sips of Cas’ high-gravity stout when the staff wasn’t looking. He was feeling a bit warm in the cheeks. They didn’t have practice until late morning tomorrow, so Castiel assured him he could indulge a little.

“You’re one of the best players in the league,” Sam said earnestly. Castiel gave him a quiet smile. “I mean it. You’re a role model. I look up to you.” Sam’s cheeks were burning with the confession but he couldn’t stop when he’d already taken the leap. “I think you’re going to do great things.”

He caught Castiel’s eye and the man looked a little stunned. He blinked slowly at Sam and nodded in one short, jerky movement. “Thank you, Sam,” he said quietly. “You’re lucky you’re a goalie - not everyone can get away with being that sentimental.”

Sam threw a french fry at Castiel and hit him in the forehead. “You’re a good guy, Cas.”

Castiel started to laugh with a tone that Sam couldn’t quite decipher. “You and your brother are more alike than I thought.”

By the time they’d paid up, they were waiting on the curb for a cab, the air just on the chilly side of fall. Castiel wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders and tugged him in, a friendly gesture to anyone watching or snapping photos.

“Come back to my apartment,” Castiel said abruptly. Sam’s eyebrows knit together in disconcertion but Castiel just squeezed his shoulder. “Relax, I enjoy your company. I want to hear more embarrassing stories about Dean.”

Sam relaxed a little and smiled his direction. “Sure, Cas.”

“Good.” Castiel leaned in a little as he hailed a cab down, lowering his voice just a couple octaves. “And maybe we can talk a bit about that hero worship.”

He left Sam’s side to slide into the cab, leaving the younger man standing dumbfounded on the curb. He wondered briefly what the hell Castiel was talking about, but the winger was leaning out of the car with a raised eyebrow.

“Come on,” Cas implored impatiently. “You Winchesters are going to send me to an early grave.”

Sam wasn’t entirely convinced it would go that way around.


	4. Cracked

The Penguins played the Stars the night before Thanksgiving.

Dean was on a fucking _roll_. He was on a three-goal streak in the past three games (and one assist, but who was counting) and he wasn’t about to fuck that up, even if he’d been coming up short and with five minutes to spare in the third.

Sam was huge in the goal, every exposed area of net just a sliver behind his pads and a decidedly tiny target for Dean. He wagged his eyebrows Dean’s way from behind his mask with full knowledge that it would make his brother’s blood boil. Dean grit his teeth and bore down.

Novak checked him hard into the glass and scooped the puck between his legs, taking off fast down toward Nieme hunched between the Stars’ posts. The vain attempt to fall gracefully failed, and Dean felt a sharp twist just above his ankle. Not to be deterred, Dean clambered up and pushed after him with no regard to the pain gnawing at his leg.

Fucking Novak. Dean skated at him hard and curved in front of him, just in time to block a slapshot that would have easily sunk to the back of the net. Instead, it ricocheted off Dean’s tape and went sailing back toward Sam, with Dean not far behind. He made a mental note to force gratitude out of Nieme over beers later.

With a few Pens on his flank, Dean had to calculate his angle before he landed toe-to-toe with Sam in front of the goal. He ducked one of them and Ritchie caught the other, leaving it a Winchester showdown with one minute left on the clock.

Dean got a little fancy, weaving the puck between his stick to give Sam an illusion of what direction it would come from.  He could hear the crowd getting restless, heckling and cheering, pissed at Dean for stealing the goal from Novak. Dean shot his brother a quick grin and flicked his wrist, sending the puck up and to the right and _straight_  past Sam’s shoulder into the net.

No horn plays for them in the Pens’ stadium but Dean can hear their own echoing between his ears as his team piles on top of him, thumping their thick gloves down on his helmet and giving him congratulations.

It was a sweet goal that would be all over ESPN tomorrow, he was sure of it. Sam glared at him as he removed his mask, going for his water bottle on the back of the net. Yeah, well, Dean didn’t care. He was four-in on his hot streak and he was going to take it all the way to the Cup.

///

“Six _weeks_?” Dean snapped, his leg propped up while Querry gave him a rueful look.

“You snapped your cuboid,” he said flatly. Dean stared at him, because what the fuck. “You can’t play, Winchester. Suck it up like everyone else.”

“I’m gonna fucking kill Novak,” he growled at the ceiling.

“Relax, it’s early in the season. You’ll be back in before you know it,” Querry said flippantly. He was being ushered out and he was furious. The boot snapped around his foot was embarrassing, not to mention the crutches shoved up under his pits as he pathetically meandered back to the locker room.

Sharp inhales of sympathy met him from the other guys, along with condolences and grave inquiries about how long he’d be out. He sat with Ruff and worked out a gameplan for the time off, what he could work on, what he wasn’t allowed to do, all the usual razzmatazz. Dean pouted the entire way through it and wondered if it was too soon to pop another Vicodin.

It was, so he just shouldered out of the locker room gloomily. Six fucking weeks off the ice. Just as he was ready to start getting a little too emotional, Sam rounded the corner with his bag slung over his shoulder.

“Dean!” He said, wide-eyed and concerned as usual. “What happened?”

“Your boy broke my foot,” he said acidly. Sam’s expression fell with such drama that Dean was immediately suspicious he was _pleased_.

But Sam came near him and grabbed his shoulder. “C’mon, I saw that hit. You fell bad.”

Dean glowered with all his might in Sam’s direction. “Still wouldn’t have happened if he didn’t barrel into me like a fucking tank,” he said. Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes, and Dean felt a little admonished. Sure, he was being petulant, but he was pissed.

“You out long?” Sam asked carefully.

“Six weeks,” Dean sighed. Sam gaped at him.

“That’s _nothing_ you big baby,” he laughed, punching Dean in the shoulder. “You’ll be back in time for the new year.” Dean wanted to kick him in the shin, just to hobble him a little bit.

“Six weeks?” Said a voice from around the corner. It was Novak, freshly showered and looking as stoic as usual. Dean felt a surge of about thirteen different emotions and in his confusion, stayed frozen. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to knock you out of the game.”

“I know,” Dean mumbled, eyes averted. “It’s cool, man. I get some time off.” He cracked a watery smile that Castiel didn’t buy for a millisecond.

Sam shifted anxiously from foot-to-foot. “Hey, Cas, do you want to have dinner with me and Dean? Holiday and all.”

Dean blinked in surprise. Castiel smiled at Sam and gave a quick nod, then quirked an eyebrow in Dean’s direction. “Is that all right with you, Dean?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said in some twisted attempt to sound casual. “I mean, cool. You can help carry my hobbled ass.”

Castiel smiled softly at him and leaned in very minutely. “I could do more than carry it,” he murmured, and Sam groaned loudly.

“You guys get this out of your system,” he said. “I still have to shower. I’ll meet you out front in twenty.”

Dean wanted to sputter a denial, or protest, or something, but Sam was gone and he was alone with Novak again. He felt so small with his cast and crutches but Castiel took a short step closer and gently put his hand on Dean’s chest.

“Your final goal was well-crafted,” he said, catching Dean’s gaze. “Impressive.”

“Talk dirty to me,” Dean grinned. That earned a bright look from Castiel and oh, it was _on._

They found an empty PT room with one windowless door and mats scattered on the ground and made quick use of it. They kept the lights off and Castiel’s eyes caught the darkness in a way that almost made them glitter. Dean felt like a fucking idiot.

Cas slid down to his knees, his palms huge and warm on Dean’s hips. He pushed his fingers up the hem and skittered them across Dean’s skin, clearly trying to evoke a reaction. Dean smirked haughtily at him.

“Not ticklish,” he said proudly. Castiel just shrugged and slid his hand down to press at Dean’s crotch and make him choke on his spit.

“I’m sorry I injured you,” he whispered. Dean could feel his breath through the material of his gym shorts and it made him shiver from head to toe. Castiel played with the thick elastic band of the shorts for a minute, pulling it back and letting it snap lightly to Dean’s skin while he palmed at his dick. Dean was getting riled up really fast, and shit, had it really been that long?

Dean was hard in no time flat under Novak’s ministrations. His skin prickled with anticipation and heat and he curled his fingers into Cas’ thick brown hair for an anchor. Cas flicked his eyes up momentarily and Dean wondered if he should let go, but Cas just leaned forward and pressed his cheek up against Dean’s erection and rubbed.

“Fuck,” Dean grunted, trying not to jerk his hips forward. “Shameless, Novak.”

“Shh,” Castiel hushed him, and leaned back to peel down the gym shorts and wrap a hand around Dean’s cock.

Castiel went slowly, with reverence, flicking his tongue in the most fleeting and frustrating way. His breath was so hot on Dean’s skin, puffed out with concentrated sighs of contentment while he stroked Dean’s dick. His hand moved fluidly while he licked at the head and Dean could feel parts of his brain shutting down.

He knew his hips were moving, seeking more friction or wetness or heat, and Castiel knew it too. He kept teasing, though, mouthing around the crown and thumbing across Dean’s balls. Dean huffed in frustration, kneeing Cas gently in the shoulder.

“C’mon, this is supposed to be an apology blowjob, not further torture.”

Castiel pursed his lips against the slit at the head of Dean’s cock. “You’re right,” he said, and Dean’s entire body twitched as Cas opened his mouth wide and bore down. The strangled noise that left Dean’s throat was less embarrassing than the thunk of his skull against the wall, but Dean couldn’t give it a second thought.

Not when Castiel was keeping such consistent suction, his tongue flat and undulating against the underside while he pulled off and ducked back down again. It was slow and intense, each movement drenched in ways to make Dean feel every bit of it.

“Cas,” Dean sighed, combing his fingers mindlessly through Castiel’s hair. “C’mon, yeah.”

Cas picked up the pace. His hands were still rubbing at Dean’s balls, circled around the base of his cock and stroking that last inch Cas couldn’t fit in his mouth. Pleasure sat low in Dean’s stomach, a comfortable reminder of everything Castiel was giving to him.

It stopped, abruptly, and Castiel was standing and shoving Dean back against the wall to kiss him. Dean could hardly protest, his brain swimming with how badly he wanted to get his hands on Cas. He pushed up the back of Novak’s shirt and stroked along his wide shoulder blades just to feel that soft skin under his fingertips. Castiel’s mouth was insistent on his, lips and tongue constantly moving and nearly distracting Dean enough from the hand on his dick.

Castiel stroked him fast while he kissed Dean’s lips, rocking his own erection against Dean’s thigh. It was so fucking hot Dean could hardly stand it. He grabbed Castiel’s ass and yanked him forward, letting him rub insistently against his leg while he sucked on Dean’s bottom lip.

Dean tugged uselessly at Castiel’s shorts. They were pressed so tightly together that getting them down seemed like an impossibility, especially with the way Castiel was grinding against him. But Dean persevered; he pulled away from Novak’s lips to kiss his throat at the same time he slid a finger just far enough down Cas’ pants to stroke between his cheeks.

The reaction was instantaneous. Cas’ breath caught raggedly as he jerked back against the touch, his eyes wide and wild as they found Dean’s. But Dean just smiled and him, tugging his shorts down just enough to free his dick. Dean palmed at it briefly, watching Cas watch him, but soon took hold of Castiel’s hips and pulled him until they were flush together.

“Oh,” Castiel said, eyes fluttering. A flush was rising on his cheeks and Dean was fascinated by it. He leaned in and kissed Cas’ mouth, slow and chaste, and started to rock his hips.

It didn’t stay slow for long. They rubbed against each other, Dean’s hands firm on Cas’ ass and Castiel’s flat on the wall on either side of Dean’s head. At one point, nonsensically, Dean turned his head and kissed the inside of Castiel’s wrist.

Heat rose up fast between them, their friction and spit building until Dean felt his orgasm edging up quickly. His stomach was tight with anticipation, Castiel’s lips drawing out new spikes of pleasure each time they pressed down on Dean’s.

“Dean,” Cas said against his cheek, voice gravelly and desperate.

“That’s it, let’s go,” Dean breathed.

Castiel came first, messy and wet and just enough to draw Dean over the edge as well. They clung to each other through soft tremors, and kissed gasps away until they were able to move again.

This was always the quiet part, the no-talking and the see-you-next-game pleasantries. They were sticky and in desperate need of a bathroom to clean up. Wordlessly, Castiel helped Dean drag himself to the nearest restroom and even helped him clean up, even as his eyes continued to flick to a reddening spot on Dean’s neck.

Once presentable, Castiel tilted his head in Dean’s direction. “Am I still invited to dinner?”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Dean said, more softly than he’d intended. He should be chirping Cas for being such a sentimental sap, but he couldn’t even muster the hypocrisy. “Sam would kill me otherwise. You are his hero, after all.”

Castiel chucked and rested both of his hands low on Dean’s stomach affectionately. “He let you score on him today.”

“Hey, that wasn’t his fault,” Dean shrugged. “It’s not his fault I’m the best in the NHL.”

“Better not get rusty during your vacation,” Castiel warned playfully. “Sharp and Seguin can handle the line without you.”

Dean bristled and whacked Novak in the shin with his crutch. “Shut the fuck up, Novak. Without me out there to lower everyone’s morale the Pens are gonna be out before the season’s over. Better warn Crosby.”

“Ow,” Castiel complained, rubbing his shin where Dean hit him. “Taking your frustration out on me won’t make your leg heal any faster.”

“Does that mean I have to stop taking my frustration out on you?” Dean asked innocently, poking Castiel’s ass with the butt of his crutch.

Before Cas could respond, Sam rounded the corner with a deep sigh. “I thought I told you to get it out of your system,” he whined as he adjusted his baseball cap. “We’re going to be in public, so keep a lid on it.”

“Aye aye,” Dean saluted, but Castiel shrugged one shoulder.

“No promises, Sam.”


	5. Missed

The first time Dean hit the ice after his injury healed he was, well, less than impressive.

“C’mon, Winchester,” Seguin chirped at him while he circled him on the fresh ice, “where’s our whiz kid?”

“Can it, Segs,” Dean grumbled, hooking him with this stick. “I’m a little rusty, all right?”

He stayed a little rusty for awhile. Each game he tripped up in was just another slash to his confidence, until he was pretty sure he was never going to start again. He might even get traded down to the fucking minors, all over a stupid leg injury.

After his sixth poor performance in a row, he was ready to throw in the towel himself. “You’ll get ‘em next time,” Chubbs tossed his way after an embarrassing home defeat to the Maple Leafs. Dean grunted some sort of pissy acknowledgement and packed up his shit to head back to his apartment.

After a beer or three he glanced over at his phone, which was blinking green to indicate an alert, and rolled his eyes. Sam had been sending him supportive texts after his games and it was really getting fucking old. He sighed, unlocked his phone, and prepared himself for some sappy words of encouragement.

_You’re getting better. Not great, but better._

It was Castiel. Dean felt something tighten in the pit of his stomach at the idea of Cas watching his games, analyzing his plays. It made him smile for the first time in weeks.

_It’s your fault, motherfucker_ , Dean texted back.

Castiel’s response was almost instantaneous. _I’m not your physical therapist._

_Too bad,_ Dean sent. _Could use your hands on me right now._

There was no text back right away, but Dean was already feeling better. He popped open another beer and settled into his armchair, fiddling with his phone until it buzzed in his hand. Castiel was fucking calling him. He raised his eyebrows and slid his thumb across the phone screen to answer it.

“Will this make you play better?” Castiel said bluntly, before Dean even had a chance to say anything.

“ _Hello_ , asshole,” Dean grumbled. Castiel’s voice was pitched low and right in Dean’s ear, though, so he couldn’t be too angry about it. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Castiel said patiently. “Phone sex.”

Dean nearly spit out his beer. “What the fuck, Cas? I’m not having phone sex with you.”

The impatient huff on the other end of the line made Dean smile a little bit. “Well, I’m not flying to Dallas.”

“I could fly to Pittsburgh,” Dean offered, and won a quiet chuckle from Castiel.

“This will be easier,” Castiel said placidly. “Take off your pants.”

“It’s always so romantic with you.” But Dean did follow suit, wriggling out of his loose basketball shorts and palming the line of his dick through his boxer briefs. He had been slowly getting hard ever since the first text from Cas, so he was well on his way at that point.

Castiel made an appreciative noise. “Romance,” he sighed. “That seems like more of your brother’s persuasion than yours.”

“Don’t talk about my brother when I’m touching my dick,” Dean complained.

“Well, I didn’t know you were touching yourself. That’s good, Dean.” The praise had a surprising effect on Dean’s body, his cock hardening swiftly under his gentle squeezing. “How does it feel?”

Dean bit his lip. “Awesome,” he said, and took a brief moment to wonder when the hell Cas had acquired this much power over him. He leaned over to his coffee table and squirted a generous dollop of lotion into his hands before wrapping his hand back around his dick.

“You’re not very good at this,” Castiel observed. Dean scoffed and thumbed at the head of his cock.

“Why don’t you take over, then?” He said. He’d meant it to sound snotty, but it actually came off as as more suggestive. Castiel made a considering noise on the other end of the phone.

There was silence for a few moments, and Dean actually pulled the phone away from his face to see if Castiel had hung up. But the line was active, and after a second he heard the unmistakeable rustling of someone undressing.

“You gettin’ naked for me, Cas?” Dean asked, voice thin.

“Yes,” Castiel replied easily. “It would be better if we were together. I would make you keep your hands to yourself.”

Dean bit his lip as the tension returned, his body prickling all over. “Yeah?”

Castiel hummed quietly. “I would use my mouth on you, like last time. Did you like that?”

The memory flooded back, Dean’s injured leg encased in a cast while Castiel sucked him off fast and hard in the PT room. Yeah, Dean had fucking liked it. “Uh huh,” he said intelligently.

“Tell me what you liked about it, Dean.”

Dean could feel heat rising up on his cheeks as he ground his palm against his hard on. “You’re good with your mouth,” he said, rolling his knuckles against the hot skin of his dick. “Makes me mad thinkin’ about how you got so good.”

A low chuckle carried through the phone. “Maybe it’s natural talent,” Castiel said, maybe just a little breathlessly.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Dean said. Castiel made a thoughtful noise.

“You’d like to hear that you’re the only one?” He asked. A hot spike of arousal seized Dean and yeah, okay, maybe that’s a new kink he didn’t know he had. He grunted into the phone and Castiel continued. “It’s true. I only touch you.”

“And yourself,” Dean quipped, because he needed something to draw him back from the brink he was careening toward. His cock was heavy and hard as he stroked himself, pressing the head into the smooth skin of his stomach.

“I only think about you when I touch myself,” Castiel said, and fuck.

Dean rolled his neck as he tightened his grip around the shaft of his dick. “I like that,” he admitted. “I wish I was touching you right now.”

Castiel’s breath hitched and Dean could practically see the way his eyes darkened. His round, lush lips were probably wet with spit and Dean wished he could push his fingers between them. His dick. “Touch me,” Castiel said.

“Fuck, I’d,” Dean had to swallow a lump in his throat. “I’d touch your cock. Jerk you off hard while I sucked on your neck.”

The thought of a darkened mark on the curve of Castiel’s throat made a pulse of precome drip from the tip of Dean’s cock. He swept it up with his fingers and rubbed it into the skin of his dick. Castiel said nothing, but Dean could hear the shift of his arm moving.

“You like that, Cas?” Dean continued. His voice sounded all fucked up but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. “What if I said I wanted to touch your ass, huh?” Dean’s strokes gained speed as the thought permeated his mind.

“I like that, too,” Castiel breathed. “I want you to.”

“I would,” Dean offered immediately. “Your ass is insane. All those years of hockey, fuck. I want to touch it, want to fucking _bite_ it.”

Cas made a noise that indicated he might not be totally against that.

Sweat was beginning to bead on Dean’s temple as all the images of what he wanted to do ran through his head. He wanted to pull the cheeks of Castiel’s ass apart and eat him out, he wanted to bury his fingers inside of him and rub mercilessly up against his prostate. He wanted to get his cock right between the hot clench of Cas’ thighs and thrust against him.

He realized, suddenly, that he was talking out loud and Castiel was panting in his ear. Like he liked it, like he wanted that. He was getting off on Dean’s words as hard as Dean was getting off on the thoughts.

Dean swore again, his free hand pushing his t-shirt up to rub idly at his chest. “You want me to fuck you, Cas?” He asked, bold and out of his mind with heat. The sound Castiel made in return was enough to make Dean grit his teeth, ceasing his movements momentarily to keep from coming. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” Cas confirmed, and Dean could hear the strain in his voice, “yes, Dean, please.”

And, God, the thought of Castiel spread out underneath him while Dean fucked him, being able to touch his skin and grind into his body, it punched all the air out of Dean’s chest. He sucked in a deep breath and continued.

“I’d take it so slow, Cas,” he said, “open you up and make you squirm. Then I’d pin you to the mattress and give it to you hard, fuck you stupid.” His hand was a blur on his dick now, pleasure sparking down every inch of his body as he thrust forward into his own grip. “You want that?”

“God, yes, Dean,” came Castiel’s sharp response. And that was so much for Dean - to hear that Castiel wanted that from him was like a shock to the system. They’d had this thing going with hasty handjobs and sloppy blowjobs but Castiel wanting sex, real sex, was making Dean’s head spin.

It made Dean wonder what else Castiel wanted that he was keeping a secret. Like, if he wanted to fuck Dean, or if he wanted to take him out on a real date. Dean’s stomach clenched almost painfully.

“Dean,” Castiel gasped, “Oh, I - I’m going to come.”

Dean’s hips jerked. “Yeah, Cas. Make a mess of yourself, come on. I want to hear it.”

Castiel’s moan resounded low through Dean’s entire body, and he swore he almost felt in his bones. His vision went blurry as his orgasm grabbed him, coming hot on his own bare belly. He continued to stroke himself through it, listening to Castiel panting on the other end, and eventually let out a long breath.

“That wasn’t too bad, huh?” Dean said through a goofy grin. He felt dazed and boneless and totally unable to stop smiling.

“Could have lasted longer,” Castiel chirped, and Dean laughed aloud.

“You came first, asshole,” he said, wiping himself off with the tissues from the coffee table. “Ain’t my fault my sexual prowess extends through all mediums.”

His phone vibrated in his hand, and when he pulled away to look at it, he saw that Castiel had sent him a picture of his spent cock. Come was beaded at the tip of his dick and Dean wanted to lick it up so bad.

“Totally unfair,” he groaned. He heard running water on the other end of the line and Dean assumed Castiel had made his way to a bathroom to clean up.

“Improve your game,” Castiel said flatly, “so you can come face us again. When that happens, maybe we can do what we talked about.”

“You mean fuck,” Dean said stupidly. Castiel sighed.

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

In his next game, Dean got his first career hat trick.


	6. Pine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is the teeniest hint of RPF in this bit (Tyler Seguin/Jamie Benn), but nothing significant.

“So,” said Castiel, “the Blackhawks are out.”

“And the Kings,” said Dean, propping his feet up on the desk his interior decorator had bought for him. He’d never used it. It had neatly stacked papers and a staple remover, but no stapler. Dean chewed on the inside of his cheek. “We’re up against the Blues.”

“In Texas,” Castiel said, his voice even and soothing. “Home ice will get you through.”

Dean leaned back in his chair until two legs left the ground and he was balancing precariously. “Sure,” he said, knowing that Castiel would catch onto his mumble.

“Dean,” said Novak, “really. You should be worried about facing _us_  for the cup.”

“You’re playing the Capitals,” Dean said flatly, “in Washington. Where’s your home ice to get you through, huh?”

Castiel was silent for a moment and Dean wondered if he’d accidentally gone too far. He opened his mouth to apologize but was immediately cut off. “We don’t need it,” Castiel said smugly, but Dean could sense the underlying humor.

Getting to know Novak more over the season had Dean in a good place. He came off abrasive, maybe even an _asshole_ , but Dean learned that the tough exterior was just in order to preserve his game on the ice. And boy, if that wasn’t a turn-on, Dean didn’t know what was.

“If we both get knocked out,” said Dean, and Castiel made a horrified sound. “Oh, shut up. You don’t believe in that superstitious shit, do you?”

“Of course I do, Dean,” Castiel said patiently. Dean clicked his tongue. He wouldn’t have expected that out of Cas, but as he’d learned, the dude was chock full of surprises. “You don’t?”

Dean shrugged, even though Cas couldn’t see him. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I play along, I guess. But the game is all us, man. I can’t hold the universe accountable for my fuck-ups.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Cas said sourly. Dean felt properly admonished. “You immediately think of your failures before your immense success.”

Shame twisted in Dean’s stomach as he shifted his cellphone to the other ear. “So, what, the universe is responsible for my success?”

“No,” Cas said firmly.

Dean sighed. “Well, either you believe in the power of the universe or you don’t, dude.”

Castiel huffed out a sharp breath and Dean instantly figured he’d screwed up somehow. “The world doesn’t need to be so black and white, Dean,” he said after a moment. “You might benefit from a little more nuance in your life.”

“My life is plenty _nuanced_ ,” Dean pouted. “I got hockey, and Sam, and, uh, you.”

He earned a low, appreciative hum for that one. “You  _got_ me, hm?”

“Yeah,” Dean murmured. “I got you, Novak.”

“I suppose you do,” Castiel said, and the tension unraveled in Dean’t gut. “What were you going to ask before, Dean?”

“If I could come visit you’n Sam in Pennsylvania,” Dean mumbled, “if we both have the, uh. The time. Maybe stay the summer.”

“Sure,” said Castiel, so quickly that Dean was a little taken aback. “You can come in June after we win the cup.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Dean snapped, but he’s grinning wide and feeling warm down to his fingertips.

///

Halfway through the series, the Penguins sat ahead at 2-1 against the Caps while Dallas was tied up with the Blues. Dean was playing his fucking heart out in this series, sore from head-to-toe for as long as he could remember. Even the thought of a long summer with Cas wasn’t enough to extinguish the fire under his skates.

He watched Pens replays whenever he got a chance. The hotel rooms in St. Louis were less than ideal, but they did have nice big screens that Dean could scoot up real close to. Sam even got some good time in the net, getting some epic saves that Dean couldn’t help but cheer for. Castiel was on point, fierce and dedicated, and Dean admittedly had to take a cold shower after watching.

He and Sam skyped whenever they could, but the hotel WiFi was shit and Dean’s computer was too old to make up for it. He sometimes caught Castiel’s stoic face in the background and maybe got in the occasional chirp, but he mostly just caught two or three minutes of Castiel on the phone. Most of their conversations centered around the game, the players they hated, and how early they had to get up for practice.

Dean didn’t feel like they were drifting apart or anything like that. Moreso, he felt the tension between them stringing itself tighter, like at any point he’d just snap and fly to Pittsburgh to mount Cas right there on the ice. He was pretty sure that would go fairly unappreciated by NHL standards.

So, instead, he reveled in those short conversations and tried to memorize the sound of Castiel’s voice. He thought about what Cas had said before the second series began, something about nuance or the universe telling him things or something like that. Dean never really subscribed to such things, but something about this thing brewing between them had started to change his mind.

 

“How do I delicately tell Sam to clean up his sweaty socks?” Castiel grumbled into his ear one day around lunchtime. Dean chuckled and rolled his eyes, sipping on a _disgusting_  protein shake that Benn had been trying to get trending throughout the team. Dean didn’t know why he had to drink it when Seguin was off the hook, chomping down on french fries at the end of the table they sat at.

“I’ll tell him,” said Dean. “Hey, do you think there’s something going on between Segs and Benn?”

Castiel coughed. “Dean, I don’t know how you could spend that much time with them and not have an answer to that question.” 

Across the table, Tyler was doing a pretty spot-on impression of Jamie, and Dean pursed his lips. Jamie was doing his best not to laugh, but the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes had set in. “Gonna keep an eye on ‘em,” he said conspiratorially.

“You do that,” said Cas, “and I’ll keep my eye on the cup.”

 Dean sighed wearily. “You and the cup. Can’t you talk about anything else?” 

“No,” said Cas, firm and final. Dean smirked. “I have to go, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed, and tried not to let the misery set in too hard. As if able to hear his frown, Castiel huffed out an impatient breath.

“Play hard, Dean,” he said gently. “We’ll both still be there on the other side.”

“No, it’s good,” Dean said with levity. “The blue-balls helps me skate better.”

Castiel actually laughed, though briefly, and Dean chalked it up to a win. Dean thought that maybe finally getting the W against St. Louis would feel almost as good as making Castiel laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set on 5/3/16. I plan to update as the Penguins and the Stars progress through the playoffs - either when they get knocked out, or when they meet each other on the dot.


	7. Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set 5/12/16.

What got Dean the most was the look on Benn’s face. His crestfallen captain gave them all tight hugs and words of support, congratulating them on a solid year and assuring them they had everything to be proud of. Behind Jamie’s eyes, though, was the emptiness of disappointment that Dean felt reflected back onto himself.

So, they lost in 2016. They’d have the summer to relax and train and next season, the Stars would be a force to be reckoned with. That was what Dean told himself around his frustration, and it even seemed to help a little bit.

To make matters worse, the Penguins advanced. That meant Sam was too wrapped up to offer Dean more than a few minutes of condolences, and he hadn’t heard from Castiel at all. He managed to ask Sam about it, but wasn’t able to wring much out of him.

“He’s busy,” said Sam, but he sounded apologetic. “Game tomorrow.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, his gut tight and a little angry. “You should get going, too, dude. Kick Tampa’s ass, would ya?”

“Guaranteed,” murmured Sam, and that was it for the call.

Dean couldn’t say he wasn’t pissed off at the radio silence he was getting from Castiel. Sure, he understood; game first. Hockey always came first. And in the end, that’s the way Dean wanted it. But even a text, an emoji, shit, _anything_ , and Dean might be able to let it go. 

Instead, he just throws his phone on the kitchen floor and doesn’t bother to pick it up as he grabs another beer and leans against the counter.

He’d really let himself believe that this could be their year. He’d truly thought his hands would close around the base of the cup as he skated the rink, fans cheering, lights flashing. Instead, he was sitting on the couch in his apartment watching reality cooking competitions on basic cable.

It was around beer six that the doorbell rang, and Dean wanted to scream into the couch cushion. If he was in the mood for anything, it was to kill this case of beer and pass out, not host guests. Still, he dragged himself to his feet and padded over to the door to yank it open.

Castiel was on his doorstep, rain pounding the pavement behind him, wearing his stupid Penguins track jacket with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“I only have a few hours,” he said, and Dean was dragging him forward before he had a second to think about it. 

The hug was a little soggy, with Castiel’s wet hair dripping onto Dean’s shoulder, but the warmth from his skin emanated out and Dean breathed it in. He moved his hands up to the curve of Cas’ shoulder blades and squeezed, encouraging him to tilt his head up so Dean could kiss him.

It was the first time they’ve kissed in, God, longer than Dean could remember. All their phone calls, their stupid texts, it was nothing in comparison to actually feeling Castiel against him like this. Dean pulled back first, so he could look down at Cas, who gave him a raised eyebrow. 

“My clothes are wet,” he said, and Dean groaned and rest his head against Castiel’s forehead, unable to look into Castiel’s too-blue eyes. 

“We could get you out of them,” he suggested, and Castiel chuckled while he smoothed his hands down Dean’s chest.

“Dean,” he said, so earnestly that Dean nearly wanted to pull away. “I’m very sorry about how the series ended. You played well.”

“They played better,” he mumbled, and Cas thumbed at his chin roughly until Dean looked up at him. “We lost, man.”

Castiel nodded curtly and pecked Dean’s lips before unwinding from Dean’s arms. “And you’ll lose again, someday,” he said as he shrugged off his wet jacket. “And again after that.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Dean sighed, snagging his beer from the coffee table and taking a swig. Castiel was suddenly in his space again, t-shirt dry, plucking the bottle from Dean’s fingers to take a sip himself. 

“And then you’ll win,” said Castiel, placing the empty bottle down back on the table. “Because you lost, you’ll learn, and you’ll _win._ ” 

Dean swallowed thickly and ran his fingers down Castiel’s bare arms. “I can’t believe you’re here.” 

Castiel just shrugged and nosed into the hollow of Dean’s throat. “Sam is covering for me.” 

“What?” Dean startled backwards out of Castiel’s arms. “They don’t know you’re here?” Cas heaved a sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“No,” he said firmly. “Do you think they would have let me leave?” 

“Cas,” Dean breathed, “you could really get in trouble. You could-”

“Stop,” said Cas. “I didn’t fly all the way out here for you to lecture me on flying out here, Dean.”

Dean shook his head rapidly. “Jesus, just fucking kiss me,” he said, already halfway to Castiel’s lips before waiting for a response. Cas wound himself up in Dean’s arms, pressing close, walking them back toward the couch so they could sit comfortably. 

Dean laid back on the couch and allowed Castiel to crawl above him to settle chest-to-chest. It was the closest they’d ever really gotten, the most private they’d ever been, and Dean was completely electric for it. They kissed slow and deep, without the same urgency that they’d always had in the past.

Castiel was draped over him, legs tangling together with Dean’s so he could start to rock gently against him while they made out. To Dean, it felt like they’d been ramping up to this throughout the entire time they’d known each other. Castiel’s hands seemed so sure, confident as they pushed under Dean’s shirt and skirted across his ribs.

“You taste like beer,” Cas complained, and Dean responded by rolling his hips up and biting the curve of Cas’ jaw. 

“Forgive me for wallowing,” Dean murmured. “Give me a minute, I’ll taste like something else.” 

He fit a hand between their bodies and cupped Castiel’s dick, grinning when he got a little gasp in response. He licked his lips invitingly and gave a small raise of his eyebrows. Castiel still looked a little skeptical. 

“Okay,” he said eventually, when Dean thumbed open his pants and slid his hand inside. “But nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” Dean promised. “You gotta be in shape for your win tomorrow night.”

“Mmm,” Castiel hummed against Dean’s mouth, then pushed up off of him so Dean could move to kneel in front of him on the couch. He started gently carding his hands through Dean’s short hair and palming across his smooth face. “I miss your playoff beard.” 

“I like yours,” Dean said as he reached up to touch it. His free hand helped Cas tug his pants down and off to pool around his ankles. “I hope it gets longer.” 

“It will,” Cas said, ending on a hitched breath as Dean took him in hand and started to lick at him. 

Dean tried to stay out of his head while he sucked Cas off, tried to focus on his breathing and his movements. He couldn’t help but get distracted, his chest tight with the implication of _why_ Castiel was there and what that meant for the two of them. But he was consistently brought back to reality by the tiny noises Castiel made and the taste of him on Dean’s tongue, all more important to him than stressing about their fucking relationship dynamic. 

The sex doesn’t progress much further than that; Dean gets Cas to come in his mouth and then he gets a messy handjob on the couch, his knees bracketing Cas’ hips while they kissed. Castiel’s hands were tight and frenetic on his skin and Dean just thrust into his hand, keeping their kiss deep and wet and everything he needed.

After they clean up, Castiel mouthed at Dean’s temple while they watched crappy reality TV and they talked about everything except the game. They didn’t talk about how Castiel had to leave soon or how he was going to be so busy for the next couple of weeks while Dean had to watch from the sidelines. Hours passed where Dean was finally able to think about something else. 

Eventually, though, Castiel had to pull away and scratched his head sheepishly. 

“I know,” said Dean. “I know, you gotta go.”

“You should come to Pittsburgh,” Castiel said quickly, and Dean blinked at him. “Sam misses you.”

“You miss me,” Dean said matter-of-factly, sleepy, and Castiel rolled his eyes. 

“Think about it,” said Castiel, and leaned down to kiss Dean on the forehead. “In the meantime, get some sleep. Take care of yourself, Dean.” 

“Score a goal for me,” Dean drawled, and wasn’t surprised when Cas flipped him off. He laughed. “Right, right. Superstitious.” 

Castiel left soon after and Dean was alone again, but feeling a little more whole than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will update when the Penguins either progress or get knocked out.


	8. Luck

“You nervous, bud?” Dean asked, shifting his cell phone to the other shoulder while he wrestled a beer out of its box in the fridge. 

“Duh,” said Sam on the other end. “It’s my first Stanley Cup final, dude.” 

Dean beamed with pride even if Sam couldn’t see him. “You’ll see ice time?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, “especially early in the series. It’s nerve-wracking as hell.”

“Hey,” Dean said as he flicked the cap off his beer. “You’re not alone out there, okay, Sam? You got Crosby and Malkin-”

“And Novak,” Sam interrupted, tone all flat and obvious. Dean laughed a little and plunked down on the couch. 

“Yeah,” he agreed, “and Cas.”

Sam hummed a little and Dean immediately knew he was in for one of _those_ conversations. “Look, Dean, I just think it’s time you start to think about all that stuff.”

“Do you really want to talk about this two hours before you get on the ice?” Dean complained, throwing back half his beer. 

“Yes,” Sam said firmly. Well, awesome. “Castiel cares about you, man. It affects his play.” 

Dean’s brows furrowed as he sat up a little bit, fingers tightening on the couch armrest. “What does that mean?”

“Just,” Sam continued, “he plays better when he talks to you.” 

It was supposed to be good news, Dean was pretty sure. He had noticed that the Penguins tended to be a little better, play a little harder, on days when Dean was actually able to get ahold of Castiel on the phone. But that kind of pressure, that superstition, that was no good for the game. 

“Oh,” was all Dean could muster. Sam gave an exasperated sigh. 

“You gotta talk to him, man,” Sam insisted. “For the game.”

“That’s crazy, Sam,” Dean said with a nervous chuckle. “You know I don’t believe in any of that superstitious crap.”

Dean could practically hear the growl in Sam’s voice. “But _he_ does,” he said firmly. “And I know you want him more than just a roadie hook-up.” 

“Sam,” Dean admonished. Sure, Sam was late-season and all, but come on. “You’re not supposed to know what those are.” 

“Please,” Sam said. “And, look. I know the difference between a one-night stand and something more, okay?”

Dean swiped a hand down his face and was at a loss for words. “Sam, I can’t be that much for Cas,” he said desperately. “If you guys win or lose, it has to be on your own terms.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sam cursed, and he sounded more angry than Dean had heard him in awhile. “It’s about more than just the game, Dean.”

That was a foreign concept, really. Hockey was everything to Dean, it was what he lived and breathed, and anything that was above or beyond that was totally out of his comfort zone. He thought of him and Cas, retired, drinking tea and watching old games on TV and shuddered. That wasn’t his future, and it definitely wasn’t his future with Castiel. 

But he also thought about getting through next season without the calls and texts, without the roadies and the phone sex, and that wasn’t something he wanted for his future, either. Christ, he’d only thought as far ahead as summer trades and wondering if he’d even still be with the Stars.

“I know,” Dean said quietly. “I get it, Sam, okay? It’s just not that easy.”

“I don’t see why it has to be hard,” Sam grunted. “You guys are all screwed up over each other. I don’t want it risking my Cup.” 

Dean laughed, feeling a little dizzy with it. “Okay, Sam, I get it,” he said. “I’ll call him.”

“Good,” Sam said haughtily. Dean wanted to roll his eyes, but Sam wouldn’t see it anyway. Instead, he sighed a little. “Call him.” 

“Break a leg tonight, kiddo,” Dean said softly. “You’ll be great.”

“Wish you could be here,” Sam replied. 

Dean could hear the hesitation, the sadness in his voice. He forced a smile and leaned forward on the couch. “Me too, Sammy. I’ll be out for Game 4, okay?” 

They hung up, and Dean suddenly felt incredibly fucking alone. His apartment was too big and his TV was too bright, showing highlights leading up to Game 1 that night, Castiel’s face flashing all determined and handsome on the screen. He fiddled with his phone, unlocking it until his hesitation made it go dark, then unlocking it again. 

The way he played depended on Castiel, too, he mused, back when the Stars were still in it. And once they weren’t, Cas has flown all the way out to Dallas - without telling his management, his team, anyone - to make sure Dean was alright. And here the Penguins were, going into Game One of the fucking Stanley Cup Finals, and Dean couldn’t be fucked to fly out to watch.

He wanted to support his brother, of course; Sam was everything to him. But then there was Cas, all serious and so, so, full of life. He played like electricity flowed through his bones and if Dean was the one to ignite that, who was he to say no?

Because that was too much; because if he ever had a bad day and the Penguins lost, that was on him. Because if Cas got a penalty or didn’t put up any points then he could get traded or sent down and Sam would never forgive him, Cas would never forgive him. It was important, Dean thought, for Castiel to break out of his superstition. 

Dean chewed on his bottom lip and drank a few more beers. He kept telling himself, yeah, he’ll call. He’ll text. He’ll say something. The game would start in two hours, and Dean was running out of time. Soon they’d be suited up and Cas wouldn’t have his phone, and it would all be moot. 

Dean couldn’t be responsible for how Castiel played, but he couldn’t let the loss be on his shoulders, either. It was important for Cas to believe in himself, break out of the mindset, but Dean wasn’t sure if the Finals were the time to teach him that lesson.

He unlocked his phone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told in real time. Set two hours before Game 1 on 5/30/16. Whether or not Dean calls will depend on how the Penguins do tonight :]


	9. Cup

And, so, it came down to Thursday. 

Dean checked his phone for the thirtieth time, even though he knew it was still hours before the game. Sam and Cas were probably getting suited up for warm-ups, probably getting checked over by the PT and going over strategies for the night. Dean was practically vibrating, his stomach twisted up in excitement as if he were the one playing in the game that evening.

As it turned out, he realized, calling Castiel really did affect how he played. After that talking-to he got from Sam, he’d given Cas a ring and chirped him, flirted a little, and Castiel had netted a goal and two assists that night. 

Next game, Dean didn’t call. The Pens lost, and Sam reamed him for nearly an hour over the phone. Dean figured he probably deserved it. When he called Castiel before the next game, it was like a fire ignited under Novak’s skates. He played so hard that night that his flushed face was a point of conversation for the analysts discussing the Penguins’ win.

“Something got Novak motivated,” said Erry. Sitting at home on his couch with his phone clutched in his hand, Dean tried not to blush.

Thursday's game, though, that was it. The Penguins could win the cup on home ice for the fourth time - and the first time ever on home ice. The thought was electrifying, and everyone in the city was buzzing with the potential. 

Dean had secured a ticket months ago - easy to do as an active NHL player with a brother in the playoffs - and had plans to surprise them before they came out onto the ice. He was standing in the hallways of the Consol Energy Center, wondering when the concessions would open so he could get a beer. He signed a few jerseys, took a selfie or two with fans, and wandered up toward the suite he’d be watching from. 

“Dean?” He heard from behind him, and, well, so much for that plan. He turned to his brother with a grin, arms spread for a hug. Sam was dressed in sweats despite the warm weather, a duffel slung over his shoulder, looking absolutely gobsmacked.

Sam launched himself into Dean’s arms, hugging him so tightly that Dean lost his breath for a moment. “What are you doing here?”

“What,” said Dean, “and miss my little brother win the Cup?”

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Sam hissed conspiratorily. “It’s bad luck, Dean.” 

Dean hadn’t seen Sam in person in months, and he couldn’t help but beam at him. He was even taller, it seemed, filled out wide across the chest and arms. He looked like a real goaltender. “You’ve been kicking ass,” Dean said honestly, affectionately, and Sam ducked under the praise. 

“It’s been tough,” he said. “But the team’s been great.”

“You playing tonight?”

Sam nodded. Dean figured probably early in the game, just so Murray could be at full capacity toward the end. “We’re so close,” Sam murmured, and Dean gripped his shoulder. He knew not to say anything else for fear of the superstitious wrath, so instead he just gave him a firm nod. 

“They’re going to wonder where you are,” Dean said after a minute, nodding in the direction of the locker room. “Go get ready. I’ll be here, Sam.” 

The grin he got in reply was enough to make the whole trip to Pittsburgh worth it. “Do you want me to send Cas up?” Sam asked, eyebrow raised, fingers flexing on the nylon of his duffel bag. Dean could feel the pink on his cheeks before he had a chance to stop it. 

“Ah, no,” said Dean, “I don’t want him to feel obligated.” 

Sam stared at him. “God, you’re a fucking idiot. Which suite?” 

“66,” said Dean, sheepishly. “I’m early as hell, though, I don’t even know if they’ll let me in.” 

“Idiot,” Sam repeated, rolling his eyes. “Just go.”

Dean nodded and squeezed Sam’s shoulder again. “I love you, buddy.” Sam gave him a watery smile and shoved at him, opting to swallow whatever words he was planning on saying. Dean grinned and made his way to the suite, happy to see they totally were okay letting him in early.

He grabbed a beer from the bucket and peered out over the empty ice, smooth and untouched and maybe where history was about to be made. He’d barely gotten a sip in before Castiel joined him in the room.

“Hey,” Dean said, raising his beer in greeting. 

“You’re here,” said Cas, and his voice was confused and reverent at the same time. Dean pursed his lips. 

“Why are you and Sam so surprised? Do you think I’m that much of an asshole?”

Castiel shrugged and Dean resisted the urge to flip him off. He also resisted the urge to kiss him hello, opting instead to put his beer down and drag him into a hug. Castiel hugged back tentatively, and his skin was warm under his thin Penguins t-shirt. Dean wanted to shove his hands up inside of the shirt and touch him, but restrained himself. 

“Is this good luck or bad luck?” Dean asked once they pulled apart. He stayed close, though, unable to take more than a step away. Castiel gave him a scrutinizing look. 

“I guess we’ll see tonight,” he said lightly. Dean wanted to glare at him. 

“Gee,” he said sarcastically, “way to make a guy feel welcome.” 

Then Castiel kissed him. It was dead silent in the suite, no one surrounding them, so quiet he could hear the carbonation in his beer and hear the sound of Castiel sighing softly against his mouth. Dean curved a hand across his hip, thumbing at the muscles of Castiel’s lower back, and kissed back as firmly as he could. 

Castiel’s eyes were round and blue as he looked up at Dean, a determination behind them that Dean had never seen before.

“Whatever happens tonight,” said Castiel, “find me after the game.” 

“Okay,” Dean croaked out, his voice dry with anticipation. 

“I have to go,” he said again, voice still steady and low. Dean wanted to drown in it. Instead, he untangled from Cas regretfully, everything in him dying to get back into his arms. 

Dean swallowed thickly. “Play hard,” he said, and Castiel really didn’t look like he wanted to go. He did eventually turn and leave, though, and Dean was alone in the suite once again. 

He sat down heavily in one of the plush chairs and watched the zamboni down on the ice. The press was out in full force, setting up, getting ready to film their pre-game interviews. A few of the Sharks were standing out by their bench, chatting and jostling, clearly as amped up as they should be. Dean felt for them; they had quite the game to play that night.

People started to fill in around him, mostly other famly members and some reporters. No one Dean recognized and no one who bothered to give him a second glance. His being there wasn’t news, not with Sam out there. He chewed on his bottom lip. 

What he had going with Cas - it was _going_. Progressing, whatever. The reporters that were around him would probably be asking him questions about Cas if they knew what had just happened in the room a few minutes beforehand. The thought made him shrink down into his chair.

Dean was never that good with press to begin with, always saying shit he didn’t mean and accidentally swearing and having trouble understanding the reporter’s questions. If he had to field questions about, like, the LGBT representation in the NHL, he could easily see accidentally getting the whole world super pissed off at him. And Cas, for that matter.

He knew his team would be cool with it. Segs practically sat in Jamie’s lap during team breakfast. But he didn’t know other teams that well, and Dean couldn’t be responsible for burying Castiel’s career under all that drama. 

He shook his head at himself. He was overthinking it, really. They hadn’t even officially labeled anything - they hadn’t even said they _like_ each other, for fuck’s sake. As far as Dean knew, they were fuck buddies. 

Then Novak skated out onto the ice for warm-up and Dean’s fingers tightened around the neck of his beer bottle. His heart thumped in his chest and his breathing came a little short. Cas looked right up at his suite and raised his stick high in the air, a promise Dean wanted branded on him. 

So, Dean drank his beer, and then another one. _Find me after the game,_ Cas had said. _No matter what happens._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set on 6/9/2016, the day of game 5 in the Stanley Cup finals. If the Penguins win tonight, they win the cup on home ice for the first time - if they don't, the series will continue.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece will be a series of drabbles/vignettes about Castiel, Dean, and Sam during their time in the NHL. Apologies for any shitty hockey mistakes (I will make quite a few).
> 
>  
> 
> [Join me on tumblr!](http://dandelionwhiskey.tumblr.com)


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